


Seventy Cups of Coffee

by ArsenicHazard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caffeine Addiction, Caffeine Withdrawal, Coffee, Experiments, Humor, M/M, Overdose, Pain, Tempting Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArsenicHazard/pseuds/ArsenicHazard
Summary: Apparently, seventy cups of coffee in a day can kill a man. Jim Moriarty would like to see if that is true.(Originally written for Inktober 2016)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 1
Kudos: 56





	Seventy Cups of Coffee

After throwing Sherlock head-first into a new serial murder, Moriarty figured it was time to pay the detective a visit. He had watched John head out to visit his sister, likely wouldn’t be back for several days, so he had 221B and Sherlock all to himself. 

Not bothering to knock, he went inside, up the stairs with a smirk on his face. Sherlock was laying on the couch, hands steepled in front of his mouth, lost in his thoughts. There were papers strewn across the room, all from the case file that Moriarty had so generously given to the police. 

“How long have you been awake, Sherly?” He asked, Northern Irish lilt breaking the silence in the room. 

“Long enough.”

“How long?” Jim pressed, tilting his head to the side as he examined the man on the couch. His clothes, likely sleepwear when Sherlock actually did sleep like a normal person, were wrinkled, his housecoat covering his legs, undone though, trailing on the floor from where he lay. 

“Ninety hours, fourteen minutes and thirty two seconds.”

Jim thinned his lips, nodding to no one. “Well then thank goodness I brought you a coffee, dear.” He purred, holding out the white coffee cup with the brown sleeve. 

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, sitting up and taking the coffee. He knew Jim wouldn’t try to poison him. Not only would it be a pathetic murder, but Moriarty needed him as entertainment as much as he needed him. 

Sipping the drink, Sherlock watched him curiously as the criminal made himself at home. 

“Did you know, Sherls, that if you drink seventy cups of coffee in a day, you’ll die?”

“Well obviously. That amount of caffeine intake would kill anyone.”

“Well you are going to be up a long time on this murder, so we better get started.” The man smirked, drinking his own coffee for a moment. They sat in relative silence for quite some time, before Jim made a phone call and told the person on the other line to bring them multiple coffees. 

They arrived not long after, Jim going down the stairs to grab them and bring them back up. Sherlock moved to the kitchen table, the surface covered in science experiments and loose case files. 

Setting at least fifteen cups down -Sherlock didn’t bother to count, Jim grinned at the other, passing him another cup. 

“Cheers to tempting death.”

Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around the cup, watching the other and touching cups before they both took a long sip. 

. . .

Twenty cups into the experiment, Sherlock was starting to feel it. He leaned back, closing his eyes, head throbbing. 

“Oh god.” Jim groaned, face pressed to the table, one hand still holding the cup he was working on. 

Sherlock could feel his body trying all the harder to expel the caffeine, reaching for the next cup as he looked at Jim. “Let’s hope you die first so I don’t have to hear your complaining.” He mused, sipping it.

By now, the taste of coffee was beyond disgusting in his mouth. 

“Ouch, Sherly. That really hurt, or at least, it would if I wasn’t in so much pain already.” Jim muttered. 

. . .

Coffee count: thirty five, almost done thirty six. 

They had moved to the living room after both of them had thrown up in the sink. Sherlock laid back on his arm chair, eyes screwed shut as his knee bounced uncontrollably. Jims head was in his hands, taking shallow breaths as the overdose began setting in. 

To be fair, both of them wanted to give up right then and relieve themselves of this torture, but both were too prideful and too curious about the outcome to even consider stopping. 

. . .

“J-Jim…” Sherlock whispered, teeth chattering as he groaned. His muscles had begun to spasm and the hot and cold flashes had started. It was quarter after nine at night, the two of them having drunken sixty-six cups each. 

Jim was practically passed out in John’s chair. He had shed his suit jacket, dress shirt undone. There were cups everywhere, throwing the ones that they could in the fireplace, the rest just on the carpet. 

“Jim.” He said again, the other rousing. For some reason, relief flooded Sherlock’s (partially working) mind. For a second, he hadn’t seen him breathing. They each had three left to drink, their hands shaking enough to spill the coffee, taking shallow breaths. 

. . .

They both passed out on the floor that night, after several moments of vomiting, spasming and muttering incoherently. The two men had put themselves through enough torture for a day. Lazily draping an arm around each other, they slept, waking late the next morning. Sherlock had a splitting headache and Jim stood, rushing to the bathroom and staying in there for several minutes. Picking up the rest of the cups, Sherlock lit the fireplace, burning the evidence of their experiment in hell. 

Jim returned, smiling tiredly at Sherlock. “Well, verdict, sixty-nine won’t kill you.”

The other man laughed, voice hoarse and feeling dehydrated from all the caffeine. 

. . .

Jim had left later that day, saying something about making himself scarce for when John returned. Sure enough several hours later, Sherlock heard the door open and shut. John called up to him, trudging up the stairs. He found Sherlock in his chair, looking like a hellish mess. 

“What the hell happened to you?” He asked, concerned slightly. 

“Experiment.” The detective said in response. 

John shook his head, sighing heavily. “Well I hope it’s over, Lestrade needs you in at the station in an hour. Here,” John reached into the tray he held, passing him a white cup with a brown sleeve. “I got you a coffee to wake up.”

Sherlock was sure he was going to be sick just thinking about it.


End file.
